


Herondale Rising. Acrylic on Canvas.

by SmallPenguin19



Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Art show, Erased memories, F/M, First Meeting, Meet-Cute, One-Shot, Painting, Simon and Isabelle are in this briefly, technically it's the second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallPenguin19/pseuds/SmallPenguin19
Summary: The semester’s final art show was tomorrow and she needed to have had her newest acrylic work done yesterday. Unfortunately, she had been felt frustrated that she couldn’t quite get the painting right. Today she had to admit that it was done. It was done whether she felt it was completed or not.Short one-shot of Clary meeting Jace (again) after having her memories erased.
Relationships: Clary Fray/Jace Wayland
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Herondale Rising. Acrylic on Canvas.

**Author's Note:**

> As a heads-up, I have read all of TMI but I’ve only seen the first season of Shadowhunters. I’ve recently discovered the ending of shadowhunters when scrolling through tumblr’s Clace tag. It inspired me to write as AU one-shot set after the Shadowhunters series, where Clary had forgotten everyone and decided to go to Art School for University. Hope you like it!

Clary wiped her hands dry on a paper towel, analyzing her painting. Despite washing them, paint still clung to parts of her skin. Somedays the dried paint just felt like it was part of her. As if it filled in the cracks that made her. Liquid gold, azure blue, candy apple red, and forest green.

The semester’s final art show was tomorrow and she needed to have had her newest acrylic work done yesterday. Unfortunately, she had been felt frustrated that she couldn’t quite get the painting right. Today she had to admit that it was done. It was done whether she felt it was completed or not.

For the last few years or so she had developed a tendency to draw and paint angel inspired work. Often it featured a golden-haired man with big white, gilded wings. He rarely faced the viewer in her works, always just the back of his head, where his hair was trimmed short at the nape of his neck and required a small brush to meld the dark golden locks with his skin, as if drawing each hair. The longer hair on top of his head curled gently into the wind, tumbling from the top of his head, glinting a special gold that required a shimmer. His large angelic wings exploding from his back as if taking flight. Sometimes she would paint quick shaped into the wings in pail marigold, barely distinguishable in their identity.

Clary was precise in her depiction of the boy. His figure more specific in detail than the more modern and abstract wings, which were done with lighter, bigger, and broader brush strokes, blending the tips of the feathers into the background color of the painting. As Clary painted him this time, she felt chaos surrounding the figure, and felt compelled to contrast his dark clothing with quick bright red brush strokes which swirled around him as if carried on the wind like fire embers. The red picked up the gold, ochre, steel, and eggshell white of the wings, occasionally scattering into the waves and cross hatched.

This current work was big, a near larger than life acrylic of her favorite concept. Her friend and fellow art student, Jenna, had teased her about picking this boy again.

“Clary do you paint anything else?”

“I do!” Clary defended. It was mostly true, she painted weird shapes, half covered with quick harsh brush strokes. She had once painted the New York city sky line and the Brooklyn bridge.

“So, you paint angels, and what are these?” Jenna took a harder look at the small abstract paintings. “A rune stone from Celtic mythology or something? Why don’t you just paint flowers?”

“I’ve tried, but I just can’t get him out of my head.” Clary didn’t want to admit that those weird symbols were based off of the funny scars that adorn her body. Her scars that were shaped like rune stones, but surely were just a culmination of overlaying cuts she had managed to get across many summers at Luke’s upstate house. Clary reached back to adjust her crimson pony tail, pulling out the paint brush she had absentmindedly tucked back there earlier. “Painting him is like an itch I just can’t stop from scratching.”

Admittedly, she had used her winged mystery man as a template for most art she made to include her graphic design classes. She even spent hours on photoshop making a photo realistic drawing of him in a leather jacket, dark jeans, fist to the ground, sweat or perhaps tears falling from his concealed face, and the asphalt cracked beneath him. The background had been tinged with the different blues, blacks, and browns of Manhattan.

When her mother, Joycelyn, had commented on how Clary’s drawing had always contained the boy, Clary had just smiled. They always seemed to, she had echoed, comfortable in the omission to her mother. Joycelyn had chuckled at her, calling him her guardian angel as she walked out of the room. Clary barely caught a glimpse of the fall of Jocelyn’s smile before she had fully turned away. Her mother was always cheerful around her, but there were moments where she thought Clary wasn’t looking, and she just looked heartbroken at her daughter. It was confusing, as Clary had noticed that these expressions even happened when Luke was safe at home or even just working the desk at the police station and not putting himself in harms way. And yet it seemed that Clary’s drawings of her “Guardian Angel” always made Joycelyn look distraught when Clary wasn’t looking.

Clary pulled herself from her revelry, shaking her head as she stared at her completed work. She was going to keep drawing her guardian angel. She was confident of that. She felt complete when she added him, or the symbols she had made to represent him to her work. But now she felt tired. The clock read 1 am. Was it really that late? She still had to return to Brooklyn from Manhattan. She sighed, throwing her bag over her shoulder. Giving one last look at her completed work. She’ll have to come in the morning and move it to the Gallery with her other pieces. She also had to name it, but it was late and no name was coming to her. She locked the doors to the studio and headed for the subway.

*****

Clary sketched on her subway ride home, drawing a mini version of her finished work, trying to come up with a name for it. Something without the word’s “guardian” or ‘angel” or “Golden.” Her right leg was crossed over her left, and her sketch pad sat openly on top of her leg.

“That’s an excellent drawing.”

Clary didn’t look up from her sketch pad. It was late, she didn’t want to have a conversation with anyone. She simply muttered “Thanks.”

“My best friend used to draw like that.”

Unsolicited comments weren’t uncommon on the subway, but it was late and she wasn’t interested in talking. Clary, tilted her head slightly in annoyance, a lock of red hair, falling forward from behind her ear. Instead of responding she added some stroked to the wings.

“She always wanted to go to art school.”

She debated on whether she should have thanked this person in the first place. She liked to think that wearing headphones was enough to deter people from talking to you on the subway. This creep wasn’t relenting.

“She talked about going to NYU for the longest time. I wonder if she ever did.”

Annoyed, Clary looked up.

A boy with dark brown hair that curled at the ends, was sitting a few seats away from her. He had a goofy smile on, which contrasted his outfit of brown leather jacket, graphic tee, dark washed jeans, and brown boots. He was sitting comfortably on the seat, angling himself towards her.

Clary stared at him for a moment, sighed and pulled a headphone out of her left ear. She sat back against the subway seat.

“If she’s you best friend, wouldn’t you know if she went to NYU.” Clary asked, feigning interest.

The boy smiled widely at her, clearly glad she decided to answer him.

“We lost touch a few years ago.” His voice was steady, but Clary sensed the pain in his voice. “I think she’s forgotten all about me by now.”

“Sorry to hear that,” She responded. She closed her notebook. “It sucks when you lose a friend.”

“Fate can be cruel,” he said. He looked to be the same age as her. There was a black-haired woman next to him, who placed a hand on his knee, her long fingers adorn with a clean red manicure. Her fingers squeezed his knee.

“Yup,” Clary said, picking up the headphone she had pulled from her ear.

“Are you an art student?” He kept talking to Clary, despite having a companion next to him.

Clary frowned. What was his deal? Was this some weird playboy hitting on single women on the subway late at night? She placed the headphone back in her ear, looking away from him.

“Look, I’m not trying to make a move on you,” Clary could just barely hear the women next to him call him Simon as if trying to get his attention back to her. “I just… I guess, you remind me so much of her… I miss her, you know?”

Clary didn’t answer, she kept her eyes focused on the subway ad ahead of her of a man proclaiming to be an injury attorney. Illegible graffiti adorn the sign. Hopefully, he’ll give up. She must have really reminded him of his friend, for although she had turned from him, he continued to face her. She could just see him in her periphery, running a hand through his hair.

“If you miss her why haven’t you reached out?” Clary asked after a few moments passed.

The boy perked up a little at the response.

“I…” He paused, looking down and chuckling. “I don’t want to frighten her.”

Clary frowned. What did that mean?

“You may be creepy, talking to some random girl on the subway while clearly with another.” Clary remarked, giving him a side eye. “But you don’t look frightening.”

He smiled at that.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m not exactingly intimidating.”

The subway stopped at a station.

“What’s her name? Maybe I know her.” Clary offered. “If I know her, I can at least ask.”

His smile faded, and he looked at the ground his brown hair concealing his expression as it fell into his eyes.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Clary responded, offended. Here this guy was being nosey, and when she finally offered her help, he completely disregarded her offer.

“No, I do want to tell you, but I…” he broke off. Running a hand through his hair and thinking to himself. He huffed a breath before continuing. “I-“

“Simon,” the black hair girl pulled his attention away, gesturing towards the window. The subway line they were on was elevated off the ground. The pair must have seen something outside.

He mumbled a curse under his breath, the pair standing up by the door. The subway barely had opened the doors before they burst through to the station, something silver glinting in their hand.

Clary turned in her seat watching them go, as the subway pulled away she could have sworn she saw someone with golden blond hair standing on the road below. Someone who reminded her of her guardian angel. The subway surged on, the road and those strangers were now out of view. She sighed. It was late, surely, she had imagined it.

Clary’s hair was neatly pulled up in a French knot, a few red strands loose around her face. Holding a glass of water, she stood before her painting in the large gallery, the soft hum of conversation filling the room. She chewed a piece of ice as she looked up at her final work. There was not fixing it now. This was her final project. In the morning she had come in to move the painting from the studio and sighed with frustration as she still had no idea what to call it. She hoped her dreams would have given her inspiration, but instead she dreamt of a subway car.

She had dreamt she was back in the subway car, but when it had stopped at the station, she darted out with that strange pair that had spoken to her on the train. She bounded down the stairs, jumping the last few, and coming face to face with the boy who inspired all of her work. Her guardian angel. He grabbed, her, pulling her away from something that slammed loudly against the asphalt. He brushed her hair from her face, before getting up, and steeling himself. A blade in hand. He stood before her, his back to her, just like in her painting. Wings bloomed from his back, and he jumped up at the foe before them.

“‘Herondale rising’?” Jenna read off the paper name plate for Clary’s painting. Clary pulled herself from her thoughts.

“Yeah,” Clary confirmed.

“How did you come up with that?” Jenna’s brown hair was pulled to a side pony tail, and loosely curled.

Clary shrugged. “I just blurted it out when I was asked for its name earlier. I guess I could change it.”

“No,” Jenna said thoughtfully. Looking up at the portrait. “I think it fits.”

Jenna admired the painting quietly for a moment as Clary took an awkward sip of drink. Clary had grown accustomed to people looking at her work long ago, but there was always something raw and exposed about showcasing a new painting and having a friend look so closely at it. It was like opening your chest and exposing your own beating heart to the world. Jenna turned to look at Clary, glancing past her to the crowd beyond.

“I know I’ve asked before but,” Jenna’s gaze was fixed on something over Clary’s shoulder. “Are you sure you didn’t design this after someone?”

Clary rolled her eyes. They always had the conversation. “No, it’s just something I have stuck in my head.” She glared a little at Jenna, who was still staring, now in wonder, over Clary’s shoulder. “What are you-?”

Clary turned.

He stood there a few feet behind her. His curling blonde hair was casually brushed back from his face, a few strands falling loose. His shoulders were broad and strong. The white shirt under his leather jacket was stretched across his muscular chest, almost outlining each peck. Clary’s breath caught. There was something incredibly familiar and engrossing about him. He took a few steps towards her.

“Did you do this?” He gestured at the painting.

The rest of the gallery fell away from her for a moment, she forgot to even answer him as she stared. She was entranced by his strong jaw bone, his determine amber eyes. Her heart raced in her chest. He analyzed the painting quickly before looking at her quizzically.

Jenna hit her in the arm, trying to pull her from her shock.

“Ah, yes.” Clary finally answered.

“It’s amazing.” He said, with a soft smile that was almost a smirk. His profile was so familiar to her. She felt like she had traced the lines of his face so many times. “You’re really talented.”

Her heart beat roared in her ears, her eyes pricked with tears, and something caught in her throat. She didn’t know what she was feeling, but it felt like a head rush, her whole world was colliding into this man as if he was the focal point on her horizon. She barely managed to squeak out, “Thank you.”

It took all of her will for her to pull herself from her emotions, blinking a few times. “I’m sorry… have we met?”

He chuckled, turning his amber eyes from her painting to meet hers.

“A long time ago,” He answered, rather cryptically. Jenna looked between then, a smile growing on her face.

“I’ll catch you later, Clary,” She said, brushing her hand on Clary’s shoulder, before walking off into the gallery.

“See you,” Clary barely managed to get out, unable to look away from the pair of eyes she felt lost in. Something was connecting inside her. This moment felt like a dream and she hoped with everything in her that this was entirely real. But she couldn’t even manage to fully close her mouth after responding to Jenna. When she finally did, it morphed into a flirty smirk. “I’m Clary.”

“Jace,” he echoed back. “Jace Herondale.”

Suddenly, it felt like she could finally see in unrealistically bright colors. Suddenly, like a movie, she thought of every single drawing she had ever done of her guardian angel over the last few years. All the drawings, paintings, sketches, of this man whose face was always half concealed. Like magic, her mind filled in his face immediately, as if the point of few of all of her artworks shifted and finally, his face was revealed. Jace Herondale stood before her, making her heart race, her palms sweet, her mouth a flirty smile. It felt like a fog was lifting.

“Nice to meet you, Jace Herondale.”

**Author's Note:**

> And they live happily ever after. Thanks for reading!


End file.
